Lonely Castles

by S. A. Tholin

  When he eventually went to the cryo facility and stepped into his pod, it was with a sense of harmony and

  * * *

  July 31st, 1585, 17:00, 56°18'01.9"N 12°27'01.4"E

  and surely it couldn't have been seven years already, but the primer wouldn't be wrong and, oh God, he had to sit down for a second. His heart was racing, his skin clammy. He bit his tongue to stop himself from throwing up. Cryo nausea was a common side effect, and he'd feel out of sorts for a few days; that was normal, he told himself, trying not to think about the less common, far nastier side effects (ranging from dermatological problems to death).

  When he could stand, he walked past nearly two hundred frozen colleagues. His footsteps echoed sharply in the clinical space. If all had gone to plan, his were the first footsteps on Earth in nearly a decade.

  Lights switched on automatically as he continued through the station. The water in the channel had receded and stagnated, leaving foul streaks of algae on the walls. Ugly, and he wondered what the sea outside looked like now.

  A metallic noise came from one of the tunnels. A pipe, juddering as the heating switched on to accommodate Archer. But his heart skipped a beat, and he stood for a long while staring into the dark, telling himself that he did not believe in ghosts.

  The sense of unease lasted until he reached the central laboratory. There, the lights were warm, and there, life had not ceased.

  The Prime Mover floated in its tank, a massive cylindrical glass case filled with nutritional blue liquid. Its cerebral cortex had grown since last he saw it (earlier this afternoon/seven years ago), and a halo of mycelia-like strands pressed against the tank. It was milky white in colour, but submerged and illuminated, it had a spectral glow.

  Reality seemed thin around it, as though if he stared at it long enough, he might see into another universe. Good, because that meant that the fold rift-generating nanites integrated in its white matter were still functional. They were at once the most delicate and the most dangerous part of the design, and there had been concerns. Unwarranted, it would seem.

  "Hey there," he said. "How have you been?"

  No response, which was also good. The Prime Mover wasn't supposed to do anything, and that's what made it Archer's baby. He hadn't created it – had only a vague idea of the science behind the semi-organic neural network – but in the end, it had been the guy with a business degree and a minor in philosophy who had made it work.

  In his Five Ways, Saint Thomas Aquinas's first logical argument for the existence of God went something like this: As motion is a reaction, whatever is in motion must have been put in motion by another – which, in order to have put something into motion must itself be moving, and therefore has been put in motion by yet another. The chain couldn't be infinite, because without a first mover, there couldn't be a second. Ergo, the chain (or the universe) must have begun with the first mover, or the Prime Mover; that which moves others but is not moved by others.

  Tom Archer didn't believe in gods, and Thomas Aquinas hadn't managed to sway his opinion, but he had remembered the argument, as well as Aristotle's thoughts on the matter: the Prime Mover of the universe was a thing of perfect beauty, contemplating only itself in contemplation.

  Aristotle had ended his Metaphysics with a quote from the Iliad: The rule of the many is not good; one ruler let there be – and here that ruler was, floating in silent contemplation inside its tank.

  While Hierochloe's psychopharmacologists had worked on methods of directly influencing the thoughts of individuals to little success, Archer had had this thought: what if one single mind focused on nothing but the contemplation of purity, while connected to all Primaterre minds? Change couldn't be commanded, but perhaps achieved through repetition and time. Like droplets on stone, the Prime Mover's harmonious thoughts would remake humanity.

  A crazy idea, but it had worked.

  Well, sort of. Times had been too dire for droplets to be enough. What they had needed was quick change, something to make humanity pull together. Nordin's department had suggested fear of a common enemy and on the drawing boards of Marketing, the concept of demons had been created. A clever way of repurposing scientific failure and sure to get humanity's attention.

  That had been the idea, anyway, but seven years had passed and Archer couldn't be sure that it had worked. It was with a sense of dread that he connected to the network.

  Monitors flashed on in the control room next door. The station's network had been downloading data over the years, the computers running algorithms to decide what was pertinent. It was Archer's duty to go through it all and see what nudges needed to be done to the Prime Mover's cognitive programming, if any. One month every seven years was his allotted time, but he could already see that it might take longer than a month. So much to go through, so much to take in.

  The neural interface that allowed him to connect to the Prime Mover was online, but even on the best of days, he had to spend an hour or two in contemplation before using it. The Prime Mover existed in a bubble of harmony, thinking only what he trained it to. It was important to only connect with a clear and balanced mind.

  So instead, he connected to the galaxy, hoping that it was still there.

  "Archer?" The incoming transmission, patched through the secure channel, was accompanied by video. Carter Keiss's nervous face peered down at him.

  "Keiss. Good to see you."

  "Not as good as it is to see you. Seven long years I've been wondering what's going on down there. Hoping that you're all doing okay, mainly."

  "All good here; Prime Mover included." He hesitated, almost too afraid to ask. "How have things been on your end?"

  Keiss laid it out to him. The Primaterre Protectorate had been established and was expanding according to the plan. The design documents pinned to the wall of the control room had become reality, one by one, society reshaped the way they'd imagined it.

  It was incredible. Even after a decade of preparation, Archer couldn't believe what they had actually achieved. Real change, on an unimaginable scale.

  And then Keiss said: "Jessica asked me to pass along a message."

  A message. More like a reminder of what he'd sacrificed for the greater good. He knew he was lucky – Jessica and Matthew were safe within the new walls of the Primaterre. They had been spared the worst horrors of the war, and they'd been far away from any 'demonic outbreaks'. They were alive, and he was so thankful for that – but he'd never see them again.

  Jessica's message was nearly two hours long, edited together from several years' worth of footage. A lot of tears in the beginning, and after a long stretch of her doing all right, the tears started again.

  He hadn't realised how much his absence would affect them, how valuable his presence had been to their lives. He wondered how far he'd have to drive to find a ship that might take him off Earth and back to them – but knew that it wasn't an option. The project aside, Keiss had finished construction on the Luna Belt three years ago. It was meant to keep people out, but it also meant that if he tried to leave Earth, he'd die all the same.

  Trapped, with no choice but to keep working for the future of humanity.

  Archer sighed and began to sift through data in search of a good target. The timeline demanded reinforcement of the demonic threat – lest people forget their fears. Someplace big, someplace showy. Someplace that would create optics no one would ever forget.

  Two weeks later, he settled on a hospital on a Primaterre-claimed world where crime stats were still unacceptably high. He made sure that plenty of footage would be captured.

  And then he pressed the button.

  * * *

  July 31st, 1599, 17:11, 56°18'01.9"N 12°27'01.4"E

  Matthew was an adult now, old enough to have two kids of his own. One had been born with Stricker syndrome, but Primaterre medical science had discovered a cure for what had previously been a death sentence, and Archer couldn't help but swell with pride when he watched the little boy (couldn't quite b
ring himself to use the word grandson) run around and play.

  Keiss was getting old and had introduced his own son in the last transmission. Jordan was set to take over Semele Solutions. He seemed eager about the prospect, which was good, and very strict about purity. The way he spoke about it – doctrine – had a religious ring to it. Slightly disconcerting since religion was one of the things Project Harmony was meant to eradicate. Archer hadn't expected reason to become an object of worship, but perhaps he had misjudged the human mind. No doubt if the Prime Mover was common knowledge, there'd be people ready to kneel before it, too. A man-made god for mankind.

  Jessica was getting old too. He skipped through most of her message. They'd got married expecting to grow old together, and he couldn't bear the thought of her doing it without him. It made him feel strangely jealous. Of what, he wasn't sure. Time?

  * * *

  July 31st, 1613, 18:34, 56°18'01.9"N 12°27'01.4"E

  After a couple of cycles where he'd not needed to do much more than analyse data and adjust the Prime Mover ever so slightly, it was time to reinforce the demon threat. It was necessary, a decrepit Keiss told him. As if he needed convincing. It was on the agenda, and as Project Manager, Archer intended to do his job to the letter.

  However, the target selection process was unpleasant, and afterwards, he went to the elevator where Jane Kempinsky had once pleaded to be let in. He put on protective gear, and then he opened the blast doors.

  A cooler bearing the Primaterre logo had been left in the tunnel. It contained tube after tube of samples. He recognised Kempinsky's handwriting on the labels. AMUR LEOPARD, HAWAIIAN CROW, ORYX, SWIFT FOX, RED SQUIRREL. Animals that were extinct in the wild, existing only in captivity.

  He hadn't thought of that. The culling of the human population had weighed too heavily on his mind for him to consider the animals. The pets, the zoo specimens, the lab experiments and the farm animals. Earth had been abandoned, and so had they. All of them dead, starved in their cages and their homes.

  He hadn't thought of that, but Jane had. She couldn't save them, but she had tried to do the next best thing: collecting DNA and reproductive samples from as many endangered species as possible. Suddenly he understood why she had spent so long on the outside.

  The wind picked up, spattering the mouth of the tunnel with sea foam. Something winked silver there. Something that might have been the ragged remains of a protective suit.

  Archer backed into the station again and sealed the elevator. His heart beat very hard for reasons he couldn't quite articulate. He hurried back towards the central lab and the comforting glow of the Prime Mover. At the first waste bin, he stopped and emptied the decayed contents of Jane's cooler.

  * * *

  July 31st, 1648, 17:33, 56°18'01.9"N 12°27'01.4"E

  Matthew was dead. It was with a strange kind of relief that Archer received the news. The first couple of cycles had been all right. It had been interesting to see Matthew as first a young man, then a father, but then he'd been older than his own father. Parents shouldn't outlive their children, nor should they stay younger than their children. It had become increasingly difficult to think of the old man in the updates as the boy that Archer had – just a few months ago, as he had experienced it – kissed goodbye.

  At least now that he no longer had to watch his bizarrely old son, it was easier to pretend that the towheaded boy was still out there somewhere, frozen in time, waiting for his father to return.

  When Archer finished his duties and stepped back into his cryo pod, he wished it had a reverse-setting, that he could go to sleep and wake up back in 1577 like nothing had ever happened.

  * * *

  August 11th, 1666, 13:24, 56°18'01.9"N 12°27'01.4"E

  It was the second time in a decade that Archer had been roused outside of his normal seven year cycle. Either the new Keiss in charge – Cooper, the third generation – was more cautious than his predecessors, or the societal framework they had so carefully constructed was beginning to show its age.

  It made sense, he supposed, that nearly a century on, people had started to forget the fear that had brought them together. Fortunately, Archer's team had prepared for such circumstances. Marketing, Psychology, Military Applications, Medical... every department had written guidelines, compiled in helpful folder-format. All Archer had to do was follow the instructions.

  The threat identified by Keiss was the captain of an army transport ship. Archer had analysed the data and come to the conclusion that for optimum effect, the trigger signal should be sent while the captain was on duty, transporting young recruits from their home worlds to Basic Training. A strike at such a target would be an unforgettable reminder of the importance of purity.

  But fear wasn't the only tool in the box. In her guidelines, Nordin had suggested moving onto positive reinforcement when the time is right. Archer regarded the list of recruits about to be picked up by the troop ship Hecate, and saw potential.

  He pressed the button, but excluded ten percent of the recruits.

  As he watched through the Hecate's surveillance, he realised that ten percent hadn't been enough. Even thirty percent might not have given the kids much of a chance. They died, one after the other, in unimaginable horror.

  Archer watched, because they weren't really kids. They were subjects, iterations of a product that wouldn't be finished for another two centuries. He would go to his cryo pod again, and one day he'd wake up to a brand new, beautiful world – but not yet. It was still just a work in progress.

  And then he realised that one recruit was still alive. He pulled up the boy's primer, ran his background, and prepped to push the relevant data to all the appropriate channels.

  "It's your lucky day, kid. You're going to be a hero."

  * * *

  May 23rd, 1687, 14:07, 56°18'01.9"N 12°27'01.4"E

  He stumbled out of his cryo pod and threw up.

  Less than a hundred days since his last wake-up call. That wasn't right, and neither was the blaring alarm. His first panicked thought was that the Prime Mover was in need of medical attention, but then his primer whispered intruder alert, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Sixty security personnel slept in their cryo pods, hale, hearty and ready to go at a moment's notice. He could rouse them in less than two seconds, and their armoury was well-stocked, but he didn't want to wake them unless absolutely necessary. Chief Carmody was an overbearing war hawk who'd shown nothing but contempt for Archer since he'd slashed the defence budget, and besides, no doubt the guards would want to know what had happened since they'd gone to sleep. He knew he would have, but he wasn't so sure how he would have reacted. It was hard enough to see history go by in seven year chunks. To have missed a century... it might unbalance them. And sixty hale, hearty and ready-to-go men with a jackass chief could easily threaten the project if unbalanced.

  The monitor of the nearest security console was flashing red. He touched it, and the screen changed to show a view of the cave tunnel.

  Three strangers stood at its mouth, the sun at their backs. The woman in the front had hair nearly as red as the Hierochloe triangle on her chest. It was an old variant of the logo, one that he hadn't seen in years, and though the markings looked like those on standard Hierochloe security armour, there was nothing standard about the armour itself.

  Peculiar.

  He ran a scan of the surrounding area. Sensors and cameras picked up nothing except for the three in the tunnel. Whoever they were, they had come alone.

  He deactivated the alarm and wondered what to do next. Faith Nordin's frozen face stared at him from her cryo pod, and he didn't need to wake her to know what she'd say. But on the screen, the redhead took a step forward, and behind her he could see the silver twinkle of something that might have been the ragged remains of a protective suit.

  * * *

  "What are you doing here?" His breath misted the security glass between him and the foyer. The three newcomers stepped out of the elevato
r, blinking against the spotlights he'd switched on. His own eyes could barely cope with the glare. Waking up twice in the span of a few months had done a number on his body. "And who the hell are you?"

  "We're from the Cato office," the redhead said.

  That branch of Hierochloe had gone offline early in the war. Archer had assumed that the staff had either evacuated or died – so many people had been lost in the chaos. Cato had been useful only because it was remote enough that Hierochloe had been able to conduct human repetition priming trials without too many questions being asked. When Project Harmony had been kicked over to Marketing, the Cato facility had been left with few research projects of value.

  "I know the place. Nice brick building in the centre of town."

  "Maybe you're confusing it with some other branch. We're from the Stairhaven office on the corner of Castle Street. Big silver building, all shiny and sharp. Opposite the ice cream store?"

  He had no idea whether there'd been an ice cream store, but he did know the building. It had been a hugely controversial budget drain when first constructed, so much so that people had still been arguing about it when Archer had joined the company nearly thirty years later.

  "All right." He grabbed a gun from the nearby weapons rack. It felt strange in his hands, almost alive. Almost as though it knew it was the first time he'd ever held a gun. "You'd better come inside."

  * * *

  He met them by his car. Its engine was running, the electric hum amplified by the tunnel's vaulted ceiling. He had opened the driver's-side door, using it as cover as he aimed his gun at the three.

  "Pardon the greeting-at-gunpoint. Scanners tell me you're unarmed, and I'd rather not have to rouse the guards – but it'd only take me a second to do so, in case you're thinking about causing trouble."

  Two women. The redhead was younger than the other by about a decade, and certainly younger than the man. Very cute, if you liked doe-eyed and sweet, and Archer, who had been alone for a long time, decided that he very much did. He was less keen on the man, who gripped the redhead's shoulder protectively, and as for the dark-haired woman: well, if he'd wanted icy glares, he could've just woken up Nordin. He knew her type very well. Some days, it had seemed the offices of Hierochloe had been filled to the brim with women just like this one.